


Negotiations (Or: Thorin Grabby-Hands And His Long-Suffering Consort)

by orphan_account



Series: Negotiations [1]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Everybody Lives, Fix-It, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 09:34:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A delegation of elves from Mirkwood arrives for negotiations and it's all up to Consort Under the Mountain Bilbo Baggins to make them happen. Thorin is pouty and handsy, Fili and Kili are always up to mischief, and Legolas and Gimli are distracted by each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Negotiations (Or: Thorin Grabby-Hands And His Long-Suffering Consort)

“My lord—My Lord Bilbo!”

 

Bilbo looked up at the shout, leaning back on his haunches as he absently dusted dirt off his hands. The sway of the corn stalks before him were the only warning of impending doom before Gímli barreled into him, both squeaking in surprise. Bilbo steadied them both, laughing, and set Gímli on his feet.

 

“Yes, Gímli? You have a message?”

 

Gímli was panting, but he straightened and tried to calm his breaths and puff out his chest—he was dreadfully proud of his status as a trusted messenger for Erebor. “The king wants you,” he said eagerly, hands clasped before him as if he was a small child instead of teetering on the cusp of adulthood. “The delegation from Mirkwood has arrived earlier than expected. It’s very urgent!”

 

Bilbo nodded, glad he was mostly done with his work for the day. “Well then, lad, we’d best hurry. Run along and tell Dero that I’ve finished the herbs but someone needs to come clean. And then head right back up to the mountain, I’m sure your father will want you there tonight at the feast.” Gímli’s chest expanded even further, if that was possible, before dashing off. He was terribly proud, and his father doted on him tremendously, but he was a good lad, Bilbo ruminated as he headed off to find where his pony had wandered to.

 

Soon enough he was back at the mountain, nodding pleasantly as nearly every dwarf that passed him acknowledged him. He had finally gotten them all to stop with the bowing and scraping business, thank goodness, but it was still unnerving to be greeted by faces he didn’t have names for.

 

The king’s suite was empty when Bilbo reached it, Thorin apparently glowering and being terribly rude to everyone within sight elsewhere in the mountain. Bilbo smiled helplessly as his eye fell upon the outfit already laid out and waiting for him on the bed. He washed quickly before donning it, dwarven formal clothes in a forge-bright red with (what Bilbo still considered) a ridiculous amount of jewelry, as well as The Crown. Bilbo sighed, staring it down, but it didn’t scuttle off in shame as he wished it would and so he reluctantly donned it. The Crown was a topic of much heated argument between he and Thorin, but today clearly wasn’t the day for that battle.

 

Bilbo closed his eyes, allowing himself to soak in the hope that today wouldn’t be the day he’d have to wring his stupid, stubborn husband’s neck, and resolutely trotted off to the council chamber.

 

His hope certainly wasn’t baseless. The council chamber was filled with the heavy weight of Thorin and Thranduil’s combined glares, and Balin rolled his eyes despairingly at Bilbo as soon as the hobbit entered.

 

“My apologies for my lateness,” Bilbo said, sliding into his chair next to Thorin’s and squeezing the dwarf’s knee warningly while directing a blinding smile at Thranduil. “We’re trying to work out an appropriate harvesting rota for the main herb garden down in Dale, and I got rather carried away. I hope I haven’t missed anything of great importance.”

 

The elf on Thranduil’s right, who Bilbo faintly remembered being present at the Battle of Five Armies, inclined his head at Bilbo in a manner clearly inherited from the elven king. “We are pleased by your presence, Consort under the Mountain. I, Legolas Greenleaf, greet you in the name of Thranduil King of the Woodland Realm.” Bilbo’s teeth ground at the sound of his own title, but his smile remained fixed. Apparently it was up to him and Legolas  to salvage this mess, no surprise there, bunch of poncy, stuck up kings—

 

But those poncy, stuck-up kings apparently still wanted their opinions to be known, much to Bilbo’s chagrin. He and Legolas were deep in the specifics of what the elves called forest-rights when Thorin grasped Bilbo’s arm, leaning over to speak lowly into the hobbit’s ear.

 

“This is useless,” he said, and Bilbo turned to gape at him.

 

“Useless?” hissed Bilbo, fruitlessly trying to pry Thorin’s hand from his arm. “Well, excuse me, Your Majesty, but you damn well invited them! I will carry out these negotiations, since you’re apparently incapable of speaking in front of elves, let alone speaking civilly. Unless you want your people to starve to death this winter, we need to start hunting and preserving meat now!”

 

“I’ve changed my mind. These elves are not worthy of our trade.” Thorin glanced over to Thranduil, and Bilbo’s gaze followed, glancing at the two elves having a similar hushed conversation with Legolas looking nearly as put-upon as Bilbo felt.

 

“Next time you feel like being ridiculous, please do it before the actual negotiations. For now, I am bloody well finishing this business, and you are welcome to stay or leave as it pleases you,” whispered Bilbo venomously, shooting a nearly incredulous glare at Thorin, who returned it with a stubborn and sullen look of his own. Bilbo tried again to tug back his captured arm, and Thorin relented only long enough to grab his hand, intertwining their fingers and laying their hands atop the table. Bilbo harrumphed, momentarily forgetting the situation, and reminded himself that murdering Thorin would be a terrible waste of a husband. Legolas turned back to the table, his own irritation clear, and he and Bilbo started again where they left off.

 

Entirely too many hours later, they had a document drafted, and Bilbo was ready to strangle the next person who so much as breathed in his direction. Thorin had gotten increasingly clingy during the negotiation, at one point trying to surreptitiously pull Bilbo onto his lap, and Bilbo had been forced to pinch him in the soft spot on his side before the dwarf would relent. He was fumingly embarrassed, and only restrained himself from kicking Thorin out because Thranduil was acting equally as childish, demanding strange refreshments until Legolas snapped and exacted some kind of revenge that Bilbo had sadly missed the details of.

 

It was, to say the least, a trying time, and Bilbo was looking forward to attempting to drown himself in mead at the feast. The diplomatic party reached the hall after most everyone else had arrived, and Bilbo pushed ahead of the group to claim his chair next to Fili and Kili at the head table.

 

“Save me from your infernal uncle,” he said to the two before Thorin crashed down next to him, grabbing for Bilbo’s thigh. Bilbo tried to slap his hand away and hurriedly stopped as Thranduil and Legolas passed behind their chairs, resigning himself to be the play-toy of Thorin Grabby-Hands for the rest of the evening. The elves settled into their seats, and Glóin and Gímli hurried up to their own seats at their table. Bilbo ran introductions around the table and then buried his face in his tankard, desperate for something to relax him.

 

Fíli eyed Bilbo contemplatively and leaned to whisper in his brother’s ear, both staring at their uncle and clearly considering some kind of mischief. Kíli snickered, and Fíli elbowed him, poorly disguising a wide grin. Bilbo emerged from his tankard and raised a threatening eyebrow at them and they settled, properly fearful of the hobbit’s wrath. Legolas was interestedly eyeing Gímli up and the dwarf surprisingly returned the look, albeit with a fierce blush. Thranduil stared off into the middle distance, as did Thorin, and Bilbo sighed, relenting his sensibilities to Thorin’s determined pouting.

 

“Can you at least string a few words together?” Bilbo said, directly into Thorin’s ear. “I’d rather not the elves spread a rumor that you’ve been struck dumb.” Thorin gave him a hurt look, and Bilbo gave him a secret smile, the one that always worked. The dwarf visibly crumbled, running his hand up Bilbo’s thigh to once again capture a hand. Bilbo let him, squeezing his hand and rubbing a thumb across knuckles, and Thorin sat straighter, a happier and haughtier look crossing his face. He leaned forward, asking Gloín a question about politics and distracting the other dwarf from his bemused study of his son fraternizing with an elf.

 

The dinner progressed far better, with Thorin and Thranduil even managing to exchange a few delicate pleasantries. Thorin’s hands never left Bilbo, and the hobbit secretly blushed and preened over the rare display of affection like a tween in his first courting. He was also highly entertained by the tentative flirting between Gímli and Legolas, mostly in the form of boasts of hunting prowess, and the growing puzzlement of each of their fathers. Fíli and Kíli were clearly in on a scheme, interrupting Gloín and Thranduil as appropriate to prevent parental intervention.

 

By the time the feast was over, and the groups of elves and dwarves moved to a greater hall for some good old-fashioned schmoozing, Bilbo was nearly five tankards in, and feeling mightily benevolent. Thorin had snuck up behind him, wrapping enormous arms around his waist, and Bilbo merely laughed and patted at an arm before continuing his conversation with an elf about their husbandry methods. As soon as the conversation ended, Thorin began walking Bilbo towards the nearest door, and the hobbit muzzily allowed himself to be maneuvered.

 

Before they could reach the door, they were ambushed by a flushed and victorious Kíli. “Look,” he said excitedly, gesturing behind himself, and Bilbo looked past him to see Legolas and Gímli lurking in a corner together, both clearly quite starry eyed.

 

“Isn’t this fantastic!” crowed Kíli, dancing a little jig to himself. “They’re so adorable, Gímli is never going to live it down!”

 

“Where’s Fíli?” asked Thorin, clearly torn between exasperation and amusement, but Bilbo allowed himself to ignore the conversation in favor of leaning back into the rumble of Thorin’s chest behind him.

 

“Keeping the dads busy, they’re trying to hover so terribly, it’s embarrassing,” complained Kíli. “Young love! Isn’t it grand!”

 

“You don’t want to know how much older than you Legolas is,” said Thorin, finally giving into amusement. “And you’re hardly old enough to go about making claims of young love.”

 

Kíli stuck his nose in the air, sniffing imperiously. “yes, grandfather,” he said snottily, and scampered with a laugh when Thorin growled in reply.

 

Bilbo tipped his head back onto Thorin’s shoulder, suddenly desperately sleepy. Thorin turned his head to smile down at him, dropping a soft kiss on Bilbo’s cheek.

 

“Let’s go home,” murmured the hobbit, and Thorin grinned wide, gently squeezing Bilbo in his arms.

 

“As you wish,” Thorin said, guiding them out of the shine and bluster of the great hall into the deep quiet of the mountain.

**Author's Note:**

> Because Legolas and Gimli are the best husbands, and Bilbo and Thorin both have their heads stuffed up their bums sometimes. This was mostly just an excuse to write 2k of adorabubble.


End file.
